Last night I watched the sky burn itself out. It was pink hot and crunchy white.
By the time I got to Centennial Park, it was all dusk and steel.
I walked with my best friend. We talked about music and writing and shirtless men.
We watched the bats, Goa Lawah on the night sky. We walked and plugged our noses and smacked mosquitoes and tasted fireflies.
We sat on a bench together, as close as a couple would, and drank diet sodas. We laughed and quoted lines from movies. We spoke aloud what we’ve both been sensing – that she’s going to be in a spotlight, and I won’t be toiling backstage for her. I’ll find my own. It’s a startling revelation and release, to feel free to pursue my own wild success.
Walking back to the car, I stared at the banks of floodlights that keep the model Parthenon illuminated at night. I wondered if they stay on all night long. I thought(to myself), “Surely, they must be run at least partially on solar power!” But the whole time I still talk to her, about the haircut she’ll get on Wednesday. About the photographer she’ll meet next week.
When we got in the car, I realized that all of my closest friends will be gone next weekend. They’re all on some kind of vacation, some kind of break from this place and its crazy floodlights. When they come back, it will be feet first into destiny. Her own business. Her new job. Her new record.
I feel a bit like I should as summer ends, not as it begins. I feel like camp has ended and the boy I met lives 3 hours from my hometown. We’re saying goodbye. We’ll even write for a few months, and flirt in our way through pens and paper and spit-sealed envelopes, but it doesn’t last.
Like I said, that’s just the feeling. It’s not the situation – nobody’s left just yet.